


A Year of Sarain

by russian_blue



Category: The Song of the Lioness - Tamora Pierce, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Female Friendship, Gen, Holidays, Homesickness, Post-Canon, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 00:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1838080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/russian_blue/pseuds/russian_blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After fleeing to Tortall, Thayet and Buri find ways to mark the passage of time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Year of Sarain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lightningwaltz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningwaltz/gifts).



At first they were too relieved to be safely away from Sarain to think about everything they were leaving behind. After so long dodging assassins and simple bandits, wars and storms, Thayet and Buri were exhausted, and glad to be in a land where they could close both eyes while they slept.

Later they were too overwhelmed by Tortall, too busy learning its ways. Different clothing, different manners, different food. And there was King Jonathan to deal with, too -- his obvious attraction to Thayet, and all the political complications that brought. They had no time to spare for memories of Sarain.

One thing after another, days blending into nights blending into weeks into months. But one tendril at a time, the homesickness took hold.

Each hid it in her own way, partly to spare the other her melancholy thoughts, but more because acknowledging it would mean letting the flood begin. And once begun, would it ever stop? How could they learn to live in this new country if they were weeping for the old?

Until one night in early spring Buri sat up with the horses from dusk until dawn, and when the sun rose she went to Thayet's chamber with a cup carved from a horse's hoof, filled to the brim with new milk. "It is the Milk Moon," Thayet said, and her voice shook on the words. "I had almost forgotten." But her hands were steady as she took the cup and sipped, steady as she gave the cup back to Buri to share.

And so began their year of Sarain.

* * *

They never agreed upon a formal plan, never even really spoke of what they were doing. Buri began it with the Milk Moon offering; Thayet continued with circlets of braided grasses for the Festival of the Wind. She wore hers into court, gathering stares from the assembled Tortallan nobles -- stares she returned with a level look, hoping it concealed the wound inside where her home used to be.

Jonathan blinked in confusion and surprise, then recovered with a bow. "If there is some story to go with your crown, my lady," he said, "I would be pleased to hear it."

So Thayet told the story of the Rider of the Wind, the legendary K'mir who first sat astride a horse. The holiday was supposed to be celebrated with a variety of races; Buri was outside, putting her mount to every hurdle she could find, but Thayet's duties kept her indoors. Or so she thought -- until Jonathan said, "Then by all means let us ride. It's stuffy in here today."

If Thayet spilled a few tears that afternoon, crouched low over the neck of her horse, the king kept far enough back that he could not see.

* * *

Thayet was the one who stiffened Buri's hair with lime and beat the drum for the warrior's dance on the summer solstice, though the sound was thin and hollow without others to join in. That one they did in secret, at an estate the king owned outside of Corus; Buri refused to let the Tortallans see her stamping her feet in nothing more than a breast-band and a loincloth. But she did go back to the palace with her face still painted white, and wrestled several men of the King's Own in honor of the day -- though none of them knew that was why. Raoul of Goldenlake watched with curious eyes, and afterward Buri admitted she was glad he hadn't joined in. "Some fights you just can't win," she muttered quietly to Thayet, then added, "At least, not fighting fair." But a few days later, when the face paint was washed off, he approached Buri and began asking her questions about K'mir training.

Buri was the one who attempted to pound rice for cakes a few months later, and who swore the air blue when the mass refused to stick together like it should. "Damned western rice," she growled, ready to throw the mallet across the field. She sounded on the verge of tears. Thayet took the mallet from her, along with the offending rice, and baked the result up into something that wasn't the cakes they ought to have had, but was sweet nonetheless. "A new food for our new home," she said, and let Buri grunt and take her share rather than pressing her to say anything more.

They took turns cutting each other's hair and burning the clippings for good luck, sang songs together in the K'mir language when they rode or walked in the palace gardens. They cried more than once, sometimes separately, sometimes on one another's shoulders. No matter how good their lives were in Tortall, the cut that had severed them from Sarain felt as if it would never truly heal. It was its own kind of grief, not for a person, but for a people, a place, a way of life.

And so it was fitting that their year of Sarain ended on the Moonless Night.

* * *

Thayet had made her excuses well in advance. Even had she and Buri not been keeping the festivals of the the Sarain calendar all year, this night would have belonged to the past. The ghosts must be kept at peace; the sacrifice of Kalasin and Buri's own family must not be forgotten.

When the knock came at her door, she thought it was a servant come to fetch her for the gathering she was not going to attend. But when she opened it, she found the king standing outside, with a small bundle in his hands.

"Forgive me for intruding," he said, and held out the bundle. "But I wanted to give you this."

Thayet unwrapped it with trembling fingers. Inside was a flute: roughly carved, not at all the sort of thing a king would usually give, but shaped in the style of Sarain.

"I asked around," Jonathan said, sounding a little awkward. He clasped his hands behind his back, where Thayet could not see them. "I am told tonight is when you traditionally grieve for all those you have lost, and that a flute is played to sing their spirits back to the Realm of the Dead. You probably have a flute already, but . . ."

Thayet was shaking, holding back tears. "I do not," she managed to say. "That is -- I -- neither Buri nor I know how to play."

"Oh." Jonathan deflated visibly. "I -- I'm sorry."

"I thank you for it, though," Thayet said, and curtseyed in the Tortallan manner. "The thought alone is precious to me."

The king hesitated, wavering in the corridor. Then he said, "I don't claim to be good, and I don't know your K'mir tunes. But I have been taught to play."

Thayet gaped, then made herself close her mouth. "Aren't you supposed to be elsewhere tonight?"

"I don't think so," Jonathan said quietly, his gaze fixed on her.

They went out into the night, Thayet carrying the flute, and found Buri waiting. Under the black sky of the new moon, Thayet and Buri sang the chants; Jonathan listened closely, and followed them as best he could on the flute. It was not Sarain -- it never would be -- but someday, Thayet thought, it would be home.

**Author's Note:**

> This doesn't quite fit into the timeline at the end of Lioness Rampant, in terms of how rapidly things progress in canon with Jon and Thayet. But I really wanted it to be a full year, and as the story went along I realized I wanted to work that relationship into the arc, so I ended up with something that isn't quite as canonical as I had originally intended.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
